Victory, above all
by Simplysheree
Summary: Enslaved, respectively, by the Legion and the past, the Courier and Boone come together to heal the Mojave and wash away the taint of Caesars Legion. At least that's what they tell themselves; revenge and anger seem the less worthy motives and healing ones self looks selfish when the world is already broken. Rated M for disturbing scenes, language and sexual content.
1. Prologue

***Drum roll* and here it is; the Victory Lap rewrite; I hope you all enjoy it! Feel free to make suggestions and requests; I want to know how you think I'm doing!**

**At the moment updates will happen twice a week; mondays and fridays.**

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The Mojave sun and the Legion had much in common.

Both were relentless, neither knew the meaning of mercy .

The slave knew this to be true because the legionnaires never gave her any of their water and the sun never stopped beating her down. She knew how to behave; head down, eyes down, shoulders hunched, mouth shut. You do not help slaves who are due punishment, you do not feed those on starvation orders, you never stop walking.

If you're lucky they don't notice you're pretty. She was lucky; small tits, on a short body and they didn't seem to like big arses. She shaved her hair with a short, sharp dagger she'd stolen from a dead legionnaire and doesn't wash. She hoped the smell would keep them away and, for the most part, it did. Until a short, stocky man with white hair, cloaked in black feathers comes into camp. He stood and stared at her with his hands on his narrow hips and a vulpine smile of his thin lips. His body was not bad and, for all she was nothing, she knew the difference; it was not his body that repulsed her, not in the physical sense, or even his face. It was the way he carried them both. Giving a sense of finality and cruelty that made her shiver; he was capable of great leverage. She knew this to be true when he kicked a slave master to death for protesting when he demanded she be transferred from her work group to his personal care. It was the only time she had liked the slave master.

She knew what he wanted; she'd seen it enough. The legionnaires picked the pretty ones out and took them away, one way or another. Most went happily enough for the rewards, others kicked and screamed... a few even fought. She'd seen the other slaves do it, though there was often more screaming then because there were no incentives. From the moment she could understand her mother told her to be always silent and unassuming; attract no attention, never smile, always snarl. A wolf, she had said, bares it's teeth for many reasons but never howls without cause. Be formidable, not reckless. Be silent and, when you can, be deadly and, one day, she had said, we will go home. We will disappear into the forests of our home and be gone forever. Her mother was a pretty woman. She was not silent, she always smiled and she paid for it.

So when he demanded her again she stood and raised her eyes to another's for the first time in ten years. It hurt; his were so much stronger but she did it and, with a twitch of the lips, snarled. Foxes cannot match wolves in a fair fight and she was a wolf by blood. From the Great Northern Forests they had dragged her mother when she was with child, from the snow and blood and mountains to this flat, scorched hell.

She would taste snow yet.

Her large, rough collar was replaced with a small, gilt one and she was no longer chained to another slave but to a handler. He liked her hair short, he said. She was fed and bathed and clothed like a princess but she knew he wanted a whore. The other slave was as dark as she was pale and he was as lovely inside as their owner was on the outside. Of course he was lovely on the outside too. He said that this desert was a poor imitation of his; that his was beautiful and vast and home to culture. Not like these barbarian bottom feeders, he had said with a smile, we are not like them, we are lions and wolves.

We.

He assumed solidarity and tried to cover for her, if he could, when she caused trouble, which was often. She loved him, in a way, as much as she had anyone other than her mother. His eyes were bigger than hers; wide and dark and beautiful and so full of emotion that she felt she might drown i them if she wasn't careful. His name was Michael. They knew each other for three months before their master become jealous.

A wise woman waits for her moment but never lets it pass; after the beat Michael almost to death, she offered to do as he wished... if he would only give her dignity. And Michael the medical aid he needed. The notion had pleased him; a slave with dignity and compassion, he scoffed. But she pushed.

Do you want a concubine or a victim?

He wanted her, one way or another and her offer was enough. He dismissed the guards but he was so wary; he was a crafty little fox. But he would not be so careful forever; his vanity, she decided, would not allow him to take her so seriously forever. He wasn't careful for long and he paid for it with his pretty face. He screamed while she ran and the legionnaires followed like hounds and, after a long, painful flight, she lost them at the river when she threw herself in. She lost them and herself in the Mojave sun until a courier found her on the river bank and dragged her to his base.

She became someone new, she had a job and her own money. She had her freedom, sure, but she still had to ask permission before she could bring herself to piss. She missed Michael; she hated herself for leaving him behind. The old man was kind to her, even named her,

"Dahlia." He smiled, "It's the name of a flower in more northern places. Don't grow here but then you don't really come from here, do you?" He assumed because she was pale and she didn't speak at first. By the time she began to she realised she liked it; she realised she was happy, by nature, and cheerful. He said she was kind, Mr Nash, and that she was as pretty as she was fierce. He made her proud to be her and, so, when he told her he needed her to take a long job, all the way to New Vegas, she accepted without hesitation.

She didn't blame him when they dragged her into her grave; she bared her teeth and snarled. She took a good look at his slick, black hair and his greasy, flushed face. He was already dead; she knew it to be true. A wolf can smell blood on the snow.


	2. Bleached Bones

Night crept over Novac like a predator and, soon, the howling of the ghouls at the REPCONN test site echoed around the beaten down town. Boone tilted his head and raised his rifle until the scope touched his brow bone; a lone figure was wandering in the distance. Not a ghoul; it moved too smoothly. Not a legionnaire, too... female. He skimmed away from the figure, watched the wastelands as the receding sun set them on fire and felt his skin tingle. The Mojave could still surprise him, still inspire wonder in it's own, brutal kind of way. His scope returned without fail to that lone figure, however; she was small and slim, wearing a bright yellow halter top and incredibly loose brown trousers, cinched at the waist with a belt. _Probably mens, _it suited her though; her long, fair hair and wide, floppy sun hat made it look whimsical rather than ridiculous. It all added up to distract from the heavy pistol at her hip and the short, wide wood cutting axe on her back

_A little survivor, _a grim twitch of pleasure, measured by the slight movement of his lips.

He shook his head, ignored the beat of sweat that was running between his shoulders and sighed. The nights were getting longer and colder; what passed for a Mojave winter was closing in around Novac and his mind. Everyone here knew something and none of them were in a mood to tell him. A spasm ran through his jaw, through his left eye and the handle of his rifle creaked as his grip tightened and a shot rang out. Behind the girl a lone Radscorpion fell without so much as a twitch. _My good deed for the day, _he swallowed and watched her twist in the setting sun; first to look at the scorpion, then to look for its killer. She pulled the hat from her head and wiped her forearm across her face. She was pale as the bleached bones he'd seen so often in the wastes, her hair held only a little more colour than her face. _As strange a stranger as they come, _he clenched his jaw and focused the scope on her again; she was heading straight towards the dinosaur,_ good. _She disappeared before the sun, certainly, but it was hot on her proverbial and literal heels. His shoulders didn't ache anymore, neither did his back; he'd stood all night every night with his gun shouldered for the last six months. At first the pain had complemented his grief, then it masked it, now his body was as used to the absence of rest as to the lack of her.

Everything was changing.

He stared into the sun as it rose in shades of red and gold, he stared at the sky until the stairs creaked and, when Manny opened the door, he stared past him. _How did it come to this? How did we get here, _he remembered older days when they'd been tattered and smiling. When they'd been blood brothers. Manny hadn't done it, that'd never crossed his mind; he hated the Legion as much as the next Trooper. But he'd been glad she was gone.

Novac had been so idyllic when they first arrived... or he had thought so. Carla had never been so big on it. Now it felt small and stagnant and cloying. The motel room smelled like rot and felt like death but, in all honesty, he had nowhere else to go. So he kick off his boots, dragged his shirt over his head and downed the rest of the whisky before he landed face first on the mattress. Oblivion was a suitable substitute for nirvana when you convert to nihilism. While the sweat dried into a slimy coat on his skin and the flies circled, his eyes glazed over until he was resting in a hellish limbo. A dry click or two broke the silence when he swallowed. A monstrous bluebottle fly landed on his knuckle. He closed his eyes.

-_The scope was his world and the women and children who fled from it's grasp were helpless. When they fell, they did so without a sound; their eyes stuck on him, accusing and dark and, when he approached them, they tracked his moves. Their were more of them than he could remember shooting. _

_He was dirty... and tired... and so thirsty. _

_The river was old and wide and, to the best of his knowledge, it had risen from the ground like a flower. When he waded into it, it was cold as ice and, for all he scrubbed, it wouldn't wash him clean. But he tried and he tried until blood started running, of course it wasn't theirs, it was his. And the drums started. And the shouting came. He made his way to the top of the hill like Moses and looked down upon a town with no hope, no redemption and no mercy. Stranded swimmers in a crimson sea of sharks. Only one didn't seem to be drowning; she held her head high and surveyed all those around her like they were below her contempt. Even the other women, she was an island and she wanted to stay that way._

_The slavers saw her first, it'd be hard not to, and they singled her out and, when they dragged her forward by the hair, she didn't cry out. She screamed like a wounded cat and clawed at their hands, their arms and their faces. He loved her. Or had, at one point before life became a daily battle and their bitterness had threatened to swallow them whole. But he respected her so much it made him ashamed he wasn't her. Maybe she'd have been able to make it all work; the marriage, the move, the work. Maybe she'd have been able to save his life but he could only save her dignity. _

_He shot her down before they could strip her. -_

A cool hand pressed to his sticky shoulder and a voice cut through the darkness,

"Hey!" Pale, smooth skin on a face with edges like cut glass and blazing eyes that nailed him to the bed, "Hey, wake up! You're dreaming, friend." And her face seemed to split in two; a smile like fire broke onto her cold features and he ripped himself from the bed, toppling into her in a tangle of limbs. Her body was hard and hot even through her clothes; her eyes narrowed a little before she laughed, "Clumsy, huh? Well no worries, me too." She pushed him off of her and stood, brushing her trousers down. There was a huge scar at the top left of her forehead, right near the hairline, that pegged her as unfortunate more than clumsy. One does not simply walk into a bullet, after all. He frowned through the shivering guilty, relief and coughed.

"What the fuck, don't sneak up on me like that." He sounded like a growling dog, he knew, "What the hell d'you want?"

"A few words." She nodded and offered him a hand,

"How do 'Go Away' suit you?" He sighed and gripped her hand, surprised by the strength in it, and hauled himself up right while she snorted and shook her head,

"Not well, how do the words 'dead legionnaires' sound to you?" She wriggled her nose suddenly, as if about to sneeze,

"Sound good." He heaved a sigh and tried to hide the increasing tempo of his heart, the fresh, excited sweat on his palms,

"How'd you like to make 'em a reality." She gave him a look so devoid of any emotion that his anticipation faltered; she was almost predatory,

"I'd like that enough to get dressed and leave the house."

So he did; he followed her in silence until the passed the Ranger Station,

"Why'd you come to see me?"

"The stressed looking medic told me you were the guy to see. Said you were the more... _ruthless _ of the towns snipers. I think she meant angry," she stopped and turned to him, "are you angry, Boone?"

"She told you my name?" He raised his brows and pushed down the surprise,

"No, I pulled it out of a hat." She chuckled and clicked her tongue a little, he snorted and hefted the weight of his rifle,

"Alright, what's your name?" She stopped and opened her mouth, "Dahlia, most people call me Dahlia."

"What do the rest call you?" He flared his nostrils and tried to steady his breathing as they started to climb a hill, _too much whisky, too little cardio, _

"Nothing." She said before dropping to her stomach and peering over the top of the hill, "Three tied up, taken from Nipton which is, incidentally," she whispered, "our next stop."

"Your." He grunted back and centred the first legionnaire in his scope, that instinctive hatred building up in his gut and throat,

"What?" She turned her head a little, eyes still glued on the target,

"_Your_ next stop," he down the first legionnaire and sprung to his feet, "this is as far from home as I go." She took off without a word, axe drawn as she approached the next legionnaire at speed. She was airborne before he could even pick up his gun and, when she hit, she landed with the force of a freight train. He managed one broken gasp before she lodged the axe in his skull and spun back into motion; she was a white hot flame in in the Mojave sun, a rattling, deadly skeleton with a nightingales laugh and an animalistic snarl. She lived in the viscerality of the moment. She seemed more..._alive_.

"Shame," she gasped, when the killing was done; looking a lot happier, _and... sexier..._, with colour in her cheeks and some blood on her boots. He pushed the traitorous thoughts to the side and looked her right in the eye,

"Yeah?" He swallowed and wiped some blood from from his faces,

"Yeah," She laughed "Vulpes Inculta is in Nipton and, I thought, you would've wanted to have some high ranking scalps on your wall."

Well who wouldn't? He sniffed and scratched his head, straightening the beret,

"How far?"


	3. Vulpes, Lupus percusserit

**Of course the very moment I decide upon an upload day my internet makes me a liar! Apologies; her is Fridays chapter. Updates will continue as normal from here on. Thank you so much to all readers and reviewers, you're support means alot to me!**

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It was further than it sounded; the sun started to descend before they saw the outline of the towns trailer park and felt the weight of the hush that had descended upon it. An acrid, vile smell began to taint the air around them,

"Welcome to Nipton." She swallowed and gave him a wide eyed, furrowed brow look of such outraged disgust that she may as well have nailed him to the cracked tarmac, "Population... one hobbled powder ganger and too many legionnaires. It's a fucking ghost town now." She swallowed, the barely visible 'apple' of her throat flexing, neck muscles tensing. He scratched his eyebrow with the heel of his hand and hefted the rifle higher,

"Lets deal with 'em then."

She dropped mines across the road as they walked by, eyes firmly on the figures in the distance; they'd been spotted, obviously, but the arrogant fucks barely twitched. She didn't stoop to drop them, just let them fall as they eyed the crucified honour guard that were standing to perpetual attention on either side of the road. _Hoping they wont notice the mines, or that they'll keep 'em back a bit?_ She didn't say, just backed up and put one of the Cons out of their misery with a head shot. The legionnaires shuffled a bit, wondering, perhaps, what the fuck she was all about. Three mercy killings later, they were walking forward, cautious but pissed off, by the fifth they were unholstering their weapons. He snorted and put one of the dogs down; they had jaws like bear traps and, anyway, whatever side they fought for, he'd rather see a legionnaire get his legs blown off than the dog. _Poor fucker didn't choose it's master. _She fired at a Decanus that was breaking into a run and dragged him out of their line of sight with a grin,

"Three," she pulled her axe from its sheath, "Two," he swallowed the urge the roar like a cornered animal as the barking got louder, as his heart hammered against his ribs, "One." He only saw her mouth move; the word was drowned in earth-shaking rumbles and high pitched screams. One after another the mines went off and the town went still.

A lone set of footsteps rang out,

"Very clever, why don't you come out and tell us what you want?" The voice was...smooth and greasy. "Caesar could use people like you, people with brains. If you'll only give him something worth considering in return, he could make you rich. And safe."

"I'd be happy to oblige him with a rather nice boot in his arse." She called back, gripping the axe handle hard enough to make it creak, Boone chuckled,

"Or a .308 bullet between the eyes." He added with a raised brow at her, _'Vulpes'_ she mouthed with a slight nod. Boone almost pitied him; he had no idea how close the end of his life was. Crouching behind the nearest set of crates with a bloody smile and a loaded gun. Her breathing was low and measured, as if in anticipation.

She didn't negotiate, she didn't barter... in fact she didn't even acknowledge Vulpes Inculta, for all his status. She hobbled him with a shot to the ankles and finished him within moments. It was over before it had even began and, somehow, that was disappointing, _what the fuck did you expect? An epic battle? _He stared at the broken bodies as they passed; the Mojave took in their blood just like the others. It was thirsty and insatiable. It had no mercy. Neither did she, he realised; empathy and compassion, certainly, but mercy? Never. He pushed aside the painful admiration, the guilty, sneaking fascination with her careless walk and broad, strong hips and he followed her into the town hall. The wood had, somehow, become damp and rotten; the benfit being that the air, while rancid, was cooler. It, the frame, seemed to heave and sigh while they moved and, he was certain, that the slow, rasping breaths they could hear were coming from the building itself. The mongrels the legion had left to guard the lower floors were sleek, dark things that blended with the shadows and leapt, suddenly, from the shadows.

"I hate killing these things," her voice was low and weary, "I hate killing animals." He'd never thought about it before, not really; he looked down at one smooth, shiny corpse and felt a shiver of guilt and sickness run through him. She was right; it was just a dog, no more or less. Just a dog whose leash was in the wrong hands.

_Too late now, _he sighed and shrugged,

"We in here for a reason?" He said while eyeing the dingy hall,

"Scavenging," she shrugged and kicked at one rotten door, he snorted and stood behind her, watching it buckle and jump under the, surprisingly strong, kicks she hammered onto its surface. The dry, brittle wood came away from the lock and left their path open. The smell of a dead room was something that he'd never been able to explain to Carla; she'd never really understood how something long dead was so much more... horrifying. This room was _long_ dead. That cool, faint smell of dust and decay that only really came from old bodies.

They lay strewn across the ground, as if they had simply lain down and died. _Did they die in the first blast? Or hide like rabbits until the danger pass? _Either way they were dead and every trace of their existence had been kept in here. In this room. He shivered and flared his nostrils as the world began to shrink, becoming cold and dry and airless. Her hair seemed to shine in the dark. She was like a ghost, a spectre of bad things to come. He backed away, flinching when a pale, strong hand reached from the gloom and gripped his shirt,

"Easy big guy," she whispered, "you nearly fell there." He looked behind him at the stairs that led back up to the ground floor,

"Thanks."

"So you're wife's cool with you running about like this?" She looked over her shoulder, "In and out of gun fights?"

"My wife?" He stopped and scowled at her,

"Yes," she drew the word out as if he were slow, or deaf, and motioned to her ring finger. He looked down; his own had a thick gold band on it. It's scuffed, well worn surface shone dully in the flickering artificial light of the stairwell. He coughed,

"My wife's dead,"

"I'm sorry." She didn't sound sorry but, then again, she didn't sound glad either. She sounded... tired, her eyes were heavy, her mouth pursed a little, "When?"

"A few months ago." He said, watching her wince a little,

"So recent."

"She," he snorted, "she would have hated me doing this." She shrugged and nodded with a slight smile,

"Well I wouldn't want any husband of mine dodging bullets." She said it with enforced lightness; he snorted,

"The bullets she could have dealt with," he laughed when she raised an eyebrow, "I was a soldier, remember?" She nodded, "You would be the issue."

"Ah." She seemed to understand straight away, she puffed out her cheeks and made a raspy farting sound as she blew the air out. He snorted and scratched his face, "I can't say I wouldn't be the same." She gave him such a warm, smile that he stopped sniggering and swallowed, "You seem like a good man, I'd want to keep wandering single women away from you too."

She said it with the kind of chuckle that let him laugh along.

The upper floors were as empty as all the others and, eventually, they battered their way into what must have been the Mayors office. She sat at the computer and started to tap at the keyboard,

"What're you looking for?" He asked while pressing his weight to the door behind the old, colossal desk the computer rested upon,

"What he knew about the Legions presence," she frowned, "if anything. The wounded powder ganger said that he kept shouting about a deal before they burned him."

"Burned him?" Boone stopped and contorted his mouth, shaking his head,

"Uh-huh," she clicked away at the keyboard, "on some old tires, poor slob."

"So why d'you want to know so bad?" The door started to creak under his weight, under the force of his shoulders,

"A ranger up at Mojave outpost asked me to find out," she turned and looked at him, "You know the keys right there?" She pointed into a cabinet. She was right,

"No," he grunted, "but thanks for deciding I'd made enough of a fool of myself for one day." he snatched it up, ignoring her tinkling laugh,

"We'll I couldn't possibly let you keep all your manly dignity intact." The computer let out a shrill beep, "Ha! Sneaky bastard was trying to sell everyone up the river. A deal with the Legion," she stood and sighed, fiddling with a Pip-boy that was attached to her wrist, _haven't seen one of them in ages,_ "to get rid of the Powder Gangers and keep the NCR off his back."

The rage was as sudden as it was intense,

"Cunt." He spat and kicked an empty box, "He got what he deserved."

"Undoubtedly." she slipped past him and started picking through the stock piled supplies, "You need any Stimpaks or Med-X?" He shook his head,

"Take all the meds you can carry, I'll give the rest to Clive for selling to the town." She nodded and pulled a flat leather pouch from her bag, packing meds into various slots and pockets before tucking it back into her pack. He swept anything that looked useful or edible into his own pack, sitting against the wall when he was done,

"If you've got any extras you want to take to Clive you can put them in my pack." She motioned to the half full bag, "I'll drop them off when I get back from the Mojave outpost."

They stuffed some of the more prosaic, everyday goods that littered the room into her pack; Clive could sell Abraxo and Fancy Lad snacks quicker than they came.

"Don't suppose I can convince you to walk up to the outpost with me?" She smiled, "I wouldn't knock the company and, anyway, the roads always safer for two."

"I need to get back," he said, shrugging apologetically, "Manny can't do everything."

"Of course," she spread her palms out in a whimsical, wry way, as if to say 'well, what can you do?' and shouldered her pack.

Capable, optimistic and tough. He could respect those qualities; he could respect her. But he wondered if he could trust her, _she hates the Legion as much as me... enough to save a bunch of Cons on principle. _A small, frail thing in his chest urged him to take a chance as they left the Mayors office.

The stairs creaked and groaned under their weight,

"When you come back through Novac," he started, "could you come see me again?"

"You miss me already, big guy?" She looked over her shoulder and laughed as she stepped off the bottom stair; her smile barely wavered when a quick, smooth shape barrelled from the dim recesses of the hallway and knocked her down. The snarling was punctuated by a loud, high shout. The kind made by someone in pain. He leapt the last few stairs and kicked the mongrel in the ribs with as much power as he could muster. It squealed, landing a few feet away but got up and tried again none the less. Unrelenting fury, however, couldn't save it from steel. It fell silent when the knife sunk into the bone between its eyes.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." She muttered it like a mantra, as if it would rewind time and, in all truth, he could understand why; her leg was a mess. He dropped to his knee and lifted her from the ground, leaving her pack where it had fallen. _Heavy, _he looked at the top of her head in surprise; she was hard and toned. And heavy. _Looks like the wind'd blow her away._ He sat her on a side cabinet and retrieved her pack,

"Bandages and stimpaks are in the front pocket." She gasped, peeling the tattered material of her trousers away from the torn flesh and exposed bone.

The blood had started to pool beneath her foot by the time he found the bandages and, if possible, she was paler than before. Strangely enough, though, he felt normal now, happy, even, to have a purpose that wasn't staring at the horizon.

"Looks like you're coming back to Novac now." He said, pulling the bandage tight, "There's a Doctor in town right now, she can look you over and give you any shots you need." He'd half expected her to argue; she just stared at the torn skin and muscle with blank eyes and tight, thin lips.


	4. First freedom

The first breath of free air had been a long time coming but it was worth it. That moment, where she hovered on the edge of solitude, tasted of pure liberation; a word from her and he would leave. Or stay.

She felt every step as if it were a blow; loneliness didn't suit her.

Each step was a bite, tear or slice at the already sensitive nerves of her legs. The heat and the wind and the rough ground battered down what little patience she had for this pain. He, the sniper, Boone, was quieter than he'd been before, if that was possible, but utterly reliable. As she started to fall behind, breaths laboured, brow sweaty, he slowed and came back, taking her pack from her and handing her some purified water.

It was the most practical kindness she'd received since leaving Doc Mitchells house. They sat on a boulder together while she shook and dripped sweat onto the parched, hard earth. Feeding the Mojaves's appetite for destruction was tiring as hell.

"What was she like, your wife?" she asked; any distraction was better than nothing. He stiffened and swallowed,

"Tall." His voice lowered, becoming hoarse and broken, "And smart. She knew what to say." She nodded and gripped the bandage, squeezing her throbbing leg, "She always knew what to say."

"Sorry," a hissing gasp, "didn't mean to pry." But, of course, she had.

Life in the work camp necessitated certainty; to know what you wanted from that day and go towards it at all costs. To forgo all softness and empathy and morality in favour of a cold, ruthless kind of knowing. In particular the kind that made you sure of what you wanted.

She'd wanted him since he gave her that vicious half smile at the prospect of legionnaire hunting. He had lived all his life as himself, she knew it from the slant of his shoulders and the glint in his eyes, all his life with no Masters or Gods to cower before. She wanted to know it all and absorb him into herself. She wanted to be free like that.

"It's... alright." He twisted and pulled at his ring, "I... her name was Carla."

"That's a lovely name." She said, tongue thick in her guilty throat; she could almost taste his pain, "What," she swallowed, "what happened?" He blinked at the ground a few times, mouth twitching as his face swerved between anger and sadness,

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about." He croaked, "Someone... they knew when I'd be away and which way to go. They knew about the snipers nest."

"They killed her?" She watched him twist the ring again and again and again,

"They sold her."

The world swam for a moment,

"What?"

He turned to look at her,

"They sold her to the Legion."

And she was there again; in that sweltering, barren camp while, all around, people cried and screamed and bled. With stinging shoulders and short, dirty hair and a thick layer of sweat and mud on her grimy, underfed body.

"How do you know she's dead?" Her mouth tasted like ash, Boone turned to face her, face a mask of annoyance until he saw her own. His mouth twitched, he took off his glasses and sighed,

"Because I killed her myself." He pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbed his mouth and pressed on without hurry, "It was just me against them. They were bidding for her and I couldn't-"

She gripped him hard, hugging his stiff unresponsive shoulders in gratitude; the dead woman, Carla, couldn't say it but she could,

"You did the right thing." He snorted and shook his head,

"I did the only thing I could do."

"And it was the right thing- I know that," she looked him in the eye, they were hazel, "I wish someone had done it for my mother." And he said nothing. Nothing at all. She smiled at him and swallowed the grief; his own was fresher and more urgent. Her grief was for might have beens; his was for should have beens. There was no comparison. So they limped to Novac like two hobbled soldier, two injured warriors, in silence and, despite her waning consciousness, she noticed that their shadows complimented each other. Their steps fell in synch.

But that tall, curly haired spectre stayed with her and, for all she tried not to be, she was haunted by it and its story.

Morality, it seemed, was not a choice open to her. The dead woman ghosted her steps, yes, but her husband was a more pressing reality. Until that cold, white hot shivering feeling began to burrow into her bones.

And then the sickness came; it burrowed deep into her veins and made her shiver and shake until Boone was forced to lift her and jog, with laboured breathing, to the nearest ranger station. The nausea came in waves, swallowing her again and again and again until she had nothing but the white skin of her knuckles and a fierce thirst. Until the fire in her blood and head was matched only by the Mojave sun and the red sheen of blood on Boone's fists. His antics were lost to her in the mists of forgetfulness but the raw brutality of his wrinkled brow would stay, she was sure, until her dying day.

The sickness rose and ate her alive every time the painkillers wore off; he carried her to Novac like she weighed nothing, even kept all the stuff for Clive. The only real victim was her backpack which, for all its usefulness, got left in an open locker in the ranger station.


	5. One more night

She got sick so fast.

It hit her like a hammer blow, coming from nowhere to swallow her whole while Boone watched, helpless as ever. Her face paled and sweat formed on her top lip and she seemed to descend into a kind of waking slumber until she was shivering and mumbling incoherent nonsense. Until she felt like she was made of fire when he lifted her and her cheeks burned bright pink while her teeth chattered.

He ran the last section of the road to Novac, lungs burning, sweat trickling down his back and burst unceremoniously into the Doctors tent,

"You gotta help her." He gasped, dropping her limp body onto the examination table, "She got bit by a legion mutt." They pushed him out into the sun with a bottle of water to recover. So he crouched in the baking sun on the hard packed ground and let it run down his throat. Back east they failed to tell you just how much water the human body could absorb; how much it _needed... _sure but they didn't prepare you for how much a big body like his could put away if you weren't disciplined. Or how jittery a battle trained body could get when it got too much adrenaline and too little to do. He swung the pack over his shoulder and threw it into the motel room before turning on his heel and jogging back the way he'd come. Hard ground and combat boots wreaked havoc on the knees, he knew, but he pushed on anyway. Right on until his breath came in hard, short bursts and he had to stop and press his palms to his knees. Drops of sweat hit the old, worn tarmac that swam before his eyes, _again, helpless again, _he blinked away the tears and straightened, moving on quickly. The ranger station loomed into view like a squat, ill tempered ogre, the barbed wire atop its walls dark against the setting sun.

The rangers paid him little attention when he slipped past them and dragged her pack from the locker; he loosened the straps and dragged it onto his back. Another bottle of water. Another arduous jog. Another drop off at the motel.

She was still in the Doctors tent.

He emptied the packs and put everything for Clive in one, repacking hers with as much care as he could muster; adding a few extra stimpaks and a clean blanket from the footlocker at the base of his bed. He sighed and swallowed around the hard, convulsing lump in his throat, _get a move on boy, shake it off. _But the shadows stayed. They followed him to the dino gift shop, they hovered in the corner and made him nervous. They whispered in his ear,

"I ain't askin' for a good price, Clive," he said, neck tight, "Just what's fair."

"Now I get that, Boone, but this price is-"

"A joke." He grunted, "You take me for a fool?"

"No- no." The smaller man shifted from foot to foot, _just trying to get by, like the rest of us,_ looked up at the ceiling, _just thinking he can step on my toes because the money ain't all for me. Just thinks I'm soft. Just thinks he can pull one over on me too. _

"Just give me what it's worth." He stared hard into those shifty hazel eyes, watching the skin crease and crinkle around them. Clive opened his mouth and furrowed his brows,

"I can give you five hundred caps for the lot, no more." Boone clenched his jaw; the lot was worth at least six and a half... but then again Clive had to make money too.

"Fine." He scratched his head, "Throw in a bottle of whisky and we'll call it even."

And he did.

A youngish boy jogged over to him as he left the gift shop,

"Hey, the Doc wants you to come get your friend." and then turned and left before he could answer. Boone sighed,

"Fucking hell." He dropped the bag of caps and bottle of whisky into his pack and straightened his beret. The Doctor was sitting outside the tent, her bloodstained vest sticking to her tanned skin, she waved him in without a word and took a drag of her cigarette. The girl, _Dahlia, _was still out but she looked... peaceful. Her brow was smooth, her face was clean and her leg was bandaged. She didn't wake when he shook her,

"I put her out with some painkillers." The doctor stood in the doorway to the tent, "Accidentally, mind you, her tolerance for meds is lower than her pain threshold. A lot lower... but she needs rest anyway, so maybe it's a good thing." He resisted the urge to ask her what the hell her name was and nodded,

"I'll make sure she gets it."

She didn't weigh much, he realised as crossed the motel forecourt and her shoulders were sharp. What she needed was rest and food. And lessons in awareness; how in Gods name she'd survived so long without them was beyond him. The issue was that she'd need his bed and he'd need sleep to get through his shift. He rubbed his face and sighed. He stuffed some clothes into his bag and dumped it in the bath. That'd do. _Clive... _was he the one Boone was looking for? Had he told them what way to come; had he turned the other way while they dragged her out the room. He sighed. No, Clive had the guts of a guppie; he wouldn't have the balls to cross anyone.

"Hello?" Her voice rang out, weak and frightened. He struggled out of the bath,

"Hey, you alright?" She stared at him, failing to recognise him for a few seconds before a slight smile broke out on her face,

"I feel like hell." She coughed, wiping a hand over her sweaty face, "You brought me here?" He nodded, "Thanks."

"No problem." He scratched his head and sat on the edge of the bed, "Anything I can do?"

"You got any water?" She asked, taking it gratefully when he passed her a bottle, "Thanks." She downed it; it seemed that little bodies, too, could put away a lot of water, "So you were talking about your wife," she rubbed the back of her neck, "you said 'they' sold her... who?"

"I-" he hated to admit it, "I don't know." He looked down at the mattress and sighed, "No one in this town looks me in the eye anymore and I don't know if it's pity or guilt. I need someone unattached to get them to open up."

"And that's where I come in?" She smiled wearily at him when he gave her a short, guilty nod, "Well count me in Mr Boone," she chuckled and extended a pale, sweaty hand, "just as soon as my head stops trying to burst." She slumped back onto the bed, breathing heavy, almost laboured, and let her eyes droop, "-mind me to change the... the." She waved to her bandaged leg. He nodded and patted her good foot,

"I will." He watched her drift off again before climbing back into the bath. He let the day drawn in between bouts of sleep until a light rapping at the door told him it was time to work. One more night, one more watchful, tense night. One step closer to putting that bastard under the heel of his boot and grinding their skull to dust.


	6. One for my baby

She slipped into the Dino's mouth in the early hours of the morning just a few days later; a fast healer, it seemed, among other things because she moved like a ghost, even sporting that slight limp. Her pale, scarred hand landed on his shoulder, soft as a feather, and stopped his heart for a few seconds,

"Ready when you are, big guy." She said it as if they were going for a walk, not planning a cold blooded killing, "I did some asking around earlier, everyone seems to think she ran off and I believe most of them." She pressed on, shrugging through his scared wrath, ignoring his shaking hands. His heart thundered in the back of his mouth while she recounted the 'believable' ones, "There's one or two I wouldn't trust as far as I could throw them, mind you." She stopped, staring at him with a slight frown, "You listening?"

"Yes." He whispered, "Who?" He could taste blood, feel the kickback of the gun; he wanted it. Now. She shook her head,

"I'll look into it."

Probably sensible; he might have been tempted to kill them all, just to be safe.

And she was gone.

And his world faded to grey and beige.

The ghouls were getting braver; actually passing around the town perimeter somehow to get out onto the plains. They were decimating the Gecko's... not that it mattered, one in ten was hardly a real loss and the fuckers could really take a chunk out of someone when they bit, _let 'em fight each other, who gives a fuck?_ Well Jeannie May gave a fuck and it was she and Clive who paid most of his wages. He downed the ghoul without blinking. Geckos, she said, were profitable because travellers killed them and sold their skins to Clive. Clive gave them to Bernice who treated them and then sold them back to Clive who sold the leather armour he pieced together with it to travellers. Probably the ones who killed the damn thing in the first place. He snorted and shook his head, freezing for a second when a low sound came from the motel; he waited for more to follow. Nothing. Nothing but the wind and the howling and the smell of his own body. He slumped into the chair behind him and sighed, reaching for his coffee,

"The fuck am I doing?" He asked the sky. He needed to get away from this town; he needed a break, a holiday, anything. What he really wanted, if he was honest, was to re-enlist, "Never should have come here." If he hadn't Carla might be alive and bitching about something even now, he smiled, of course she might also have fucked off with a pretty, sleazy waiter from the Tops. He stared at the peeling, rotting roof of the Dino's mouth and sighed, letting the tension trickle out of him until he was little more than a deflated bag of bones and regret. _I can't do it anymore, Carla, it's too hard._

He dreamt, for a while; the first he'd had in a long time.

-He stood in the centre of Cottonwood Cove, surrounded by broken shells that were once the bodies of legionnaires and slaves alike. He knew this was not his doing; something large and powerful had come before him, a force of nature had swept aside everything in it's path. It was a path he followed to the river. In the shallows a man floated, wearing a Commanders armour, blood slipped through his finger tips like black snakes and, where his eyes had been, pools of clear water had formed. A small white flower floated in one. Another body slipped by, hands missing, mouth sewn shut and, in the shallows of an island in the centre of the river, a large white wolf sat. He walked to it, the water lapping at his neck and, when he began to exit the river again, it stood, walking out to meet him.

Perhaps it was once all fearsome beauty and strength but now it was weary and bloodstained. It limped into the water and the blood began to seep from its coat, it's flanks shook, it's massive head hung but its ears twitched when he reached for it. The ghost of a snarl, the promise of menace but, somehow, he knew it wouldn't hurt him, _I'm not like them. _When he took its head in his hands it began to float, letting its feet fall away from the riverbed; its eyes were gentle, almost hurt. He slid his hand under its chest and held it up, feeling the slow, heavy heartbeat drum against his wrist while its breathing slowed and its head slumped into the crook of his elbow. He wanted to ask how such a large, powerful creature could weight so little; it's ribs pressed hard to his hands. It was starving.

On the riverbank Carla stared and smiled, raising her elegant chin,

"Wake up." He blinked in the bloody water-

-"There was something right here!"

"Well it's not here now, dear." One of the voices was raised, the other hushed, "And keep quiet, people are sleeping." He stood, peering blearily through his scope, _Jeannie May? _Suddenly Dahlia looked up and, seeing the glint of his scope no doubt, nodded firmly, pressing his beret to her head. She seemed so certain. His finger twitched on the trigger, _but..., _and Jeannie began to leave, shaking her head twice before it exploded in a shower of gore. The girl flinched and wiped her face slipping from his sight.

"What the hell took you so long?" She hissed when she slipped through the door,

"I-" what could he say? '_I dreamed that a wolf ate every legionnaire in Cottonwood Cove and then used me as a leaning post, incidentally Carla looked pleased, so really it was a win-win'_? "I couldn't really believe it was her." She sighed and pressed her hands to his shoulders,

"I found a bill of sale, Boone, she wouldn't have been there if I wasn't sure." her voice was tired but controlled and, for the first time that year, he believed another human being wholeheartedly. Without reservation or suspicion. She pressed the bill of sale into his hand and scratched her head,

"I'm gonna go find an empty room to sleep in, give you some space buddy." Bad news, then. Very bad, judging by how pale and drawn her face was. He sat out the rest of the night in tense silence. Geckos started to pick at the body; he picked them off, despite the growing feeling that it was punishment due. Despite the hate in his throat and the anger in his belly. He wouldn't stoop to their level; if nothing else he would be able to say he was better than _them._

Boone fought the urge to tell Manny when he arrived but, for a second, his resolve slipped and he looked up into that familiar face. He probably couldn't tell through the glasses but Boone took in every detail of his face. Cold, blank, closed off and utterly devoid of guilt or sorrow, _bastard,_ he pushed past him. It wasn't Mannys cross to bear, he knew, but shouldn't friends grieve for each other? Shouldn't they _care_?

The bill was crumpled and soft, saturated with sweat from his palm, by the time he closed the door behind him and sat down to read it. _And unborn child._ His world stopped, his stomach turned and, somehow, he found himself face first in the toilet, retching and gasping while the world throbbed and wavered like a bad dream. His face, when he dragged himself up to stare at in in the mirror, was utterly colourless, the mouth immobile and frozen. He slammed his forehead into the face of the idiot in front of him, that stupid prick who couldn't even protect his own child, and flared his nostrils, letting the pain wash over him while the blood dripped onto the shining shards in the sink. And _she_ had left him alone, his eyes flicked to the wall, pressed the bad news into his palm and fled; she had known. A good man, she'd called him but she still fucked off. Still slithered away into the dark.

The whisky went down like water but the pain, the anger, the loneliness._.. _they stayed. They got worse as the throbbing in his head increased and the alcohol took hold and, suddenly, he was staggering to the only door that she could possibly be behind. His hammering must have woke the whole town but if she was fazed she didn't show it; she stepped aside, motioned him in, with a worried look in her eyes,

"You've got a bit of blood," she motioned in a large circle around her face, "just... fucking everywhere, mate."

"You read it." He gasped, ashamed of the bloody tears on his face, "You _knew._" She nodded and sat down with a sigh,

"I figured you'd come find me if you wanted company." _Company, _he snorted; it had been a long time since he'd had company of any kind. She passed him a fresh bottle, wincing when he took three long swallows and dropped onto the bed beside her. They drank in silence until the room span and, eventually, his brain latched onto one moment; the way she had looked at him when she turned on the stairs, the look in her eyes. _"__You seem like a good man, I'd want to keep wandering single women away from you too."_

It had been a long time since he'd had any kind of company.

Or even felt warm.

He pressed his mouth to her neck, reaching for her waist but never reached it. Her hands pried his away and pushed him back onto the bed. She held his head in her hands and pulled his shoulders down to the bed. The smooth material of her pyjamas rubbed against his bloody cheek as he squirmed; her fingers, though light on the back of his neck, tickled.

"Close your eyes." She whispered.

He was going to feel like shit in the morning.


	7. Stock up, set out

She left him to sleep, he needed it, and rose with the sun to assess the evidence that had been left in their wake. At some point Geckos had dragged the body further down the road, out of the reach of the snipers nest and had done, to say the least, a fair amount of damage to it. What lay discarded in a ditch was barely a bag of bones. She sighed and pressed her palms to her hips; the ground was too hard for a burial and the nearest river was miles away. She slung the body over her shoulder as best she could and grimacing mainly at the searing pain in her leg but also at the smell... it was surprisingly sweet, cloying almost, and made her stomach lurch. She half jogged the short distance out of town, moving away from the Dino and motel, desperate to put the cold, heavy carcass down.

She found what might constitute a decent spot and arranged the body neatly, hands crossed over what was left of the chest, and walked back the way she came to get her pack.

Whisky and matches.

At least the poor sod wouldn't be torn apart by night-stalkers; even she deserved that decency. Dahlia left the bitch still burning and hefted her backpack further up her shoulders, turning in the direction of the Mojave outpost. Ranger Ghost was waiting, she'd best not disappoint the NCR because the brownie points would go a long way; drifters were treated with suspicion, at best. Perhaps she shouldn't have left Boone alone but he had issues, she reasoned, and she couldn't be his easy fix. The memory of his large hands brushing over her waist, his mouth on her neck... it was sweet and bitter and as repulsive as it was enticing. He either wanted to forget or replace that spectre that haunted him right now and she had too many of her own. So she turned her face to the rising sun and pushed on until the statues were dark, looming silhouettes at the top of the hill and the sweat was running in rivers down her back. The ant corpses she'd left in her wake were still there; all sharp points and shining exoskeleton under the blistering sun. But no movement, thank the lord, and no danger. She crossed that off her to do list and began mentally repacking her bag to make room for the supplies she had been told might be 'lost' to her. All things considered, the day could have been worse.

Lungs burning, leg aching, she scaled the ramp to Ghosts look-out and waited for the other woman to acknowledge her. The others thought she was a bitch and, while she could be, Dahlia preferred her company to most others. It could have just been that she was pale enough to make Dahlia feel like less of a duck in the swans nest but her quiet, certainty made everything seem more manageable. Even when shit was hitting the fan at all angles, Dahlia imagined Ghost would be calm, collected and have a half-way usable plan. Or at least a bottle of something,

"You took your time."

"Leg got torn up by a mutt," she slumped in the chair next to Ghost and displayed her bloody bandage, "took me half a day to get here."

"Idiot," Ghost said without twitching, "you would've done better to stay put."

"I might've but I thought you'd want to know that Niptons a fucking ghost-town, everyone's dead, well apart from one powderganger but he's on his way out, I reckon." She took the offered water and med-x with a grateful nod,

"What happened?" Ghost took off her glasses and leaned on the table,

"The legion happened."

"Shit," Ghost seemed worried, sure, but looked about as surprised as Boone had happy, "I'd hoped it'd be the fiends or the powdergangers or... hell _anything_ but the Legion. At least this far east. How many are there?"

"None." She exhaled as the med-x began to take effect, "At least there's none now." Ghost raised an eyebrow, her dark eyes like sink holes in the snow, "I enlisted an ex-NCR sniper in Novac, we dealt with it."

"I told you to-"

"I know," she held up a hand, "but there was an officer there... Named man, so to speak, Vulpes Inculta." Ghost stopped, mouth open just a fraction,

"And?"

Dahlia pulled the bloodstained wolf pelt from her pack and deposited it at Ghosts feet,

"He's not an officer anymore." She said. Ghost knelt to pick it up, holding it to the light with her face set like marble before she laughed, long and loud,

"Well fuck me, you do good work Courier... I'll see about rattling up a reward for you. Any idea _why_ they were out here, or is that too much to ask?" She placed it on the table gently,

"The Mayor made a deal with them, he wanted the powdergangers gone and the NCR kept out... apparently your tax scheme didn't suit him." She threw back the rest of the water and wondered, for a moment, whether he'd woken up yet. If he was wondering where she was.

"And he is...?"

"Dead, Legion burned him."

"Ouch." Ghost laughed, "Oh well, fucker made a deal with the devil, that shit was always gonna burn." She frowned at Dahlia, eyes flicking over her rapidly, "You look like shit, my bunk's down stairs, first on the left. Get some sleep and meet me in the bar after."

Who was she to argue?

Not that she slept, per se; she slipped between a nauseated doze and a feverish wakefulness as the soldiers milled in and around the caravans that had been set up. None of them asked why she was there; they knew Ghosts bunk, apparently. It was anyones guess what they said when out of earshot. She lay in an exhausted heap until the smell of her own body became too much. The grit that clung to every part of her made the slimy sheen of sweat on her body rough and, if possible, even less pleasant. She dragged a bottle of dirty looking water from her bag and sighed; it seemed a waste but she sure as hell wasn't going to drink it. She staggered out to a spot that had some wildlife and made believe that her makeshift shower was benefiting more than just her vanity. The troopers looked when she stripped to her bra but said nothing, used to it no doubt. One even offered her some soap and advice,

"We used that thing over there," he motioned to a low-side metal skip of sorts, "sits in the shade and it catches rain, when there's any."

He was right; it had enough water in the bottom to hit her calves and it was cool enough to warrant hanging her trousers over the side too. Nothing to be done for her hair but at least she'd be clean...ish. And cool. If nothing else the break from the Mojave heat was worth it. As she scrubbed with the rough, brown soap her skin seemed to shed layers of dirt and grime until it tingled in the slight breeze.

She'd get new clothes soon, she decided, feeling the rough, taut material scratch at her newly cleaned skin. The smell alone made the decision almost necessary.

Ghost was leaning against the bar doors, smiling,

"Feel better?"

"Yeah." Dahlia nodded, "Any clean bandages around here?"

"Sure, ask Lacey." Ghost lead her into the gloomy bar, deserted but for a surly, drunk red-head who gave her a hard, sad look, "Lacey, any fresh bandages in stock?"

"Uh- sure thing Ghost..." The woman, Lacey, looked at her strangely,

"For the Courier, Lacey." Ghost said,

"Oh, right... uh sure." She reached under the counter and pulled out a green first aid box, handing her obviously old but clean bandages,

"Thanks." She smiled and turned to Ghost. They sat at the bar, "You wanted to talk to me?"

"Nelsons in deep shit," Ghost clasped her hands, "_Deep_ shit. Some Troopers got captured and now they're calling in First Recon to perform the mercy killings."

"But?" Dahlia asked, already knowing what she wanted,

"But I think you might be able to help them." Ghost smiled, "Or at least if anyone can, it's you. You'll be rewarded and the NCR will think highly of it."

"I-" She teetered on the edge of refusing, "I'll see what I can do." Ghost nodded, slid some caps over to her and left, silent as her namesake.

"Well fuck." Dahlia sighed, unwinding the dirty bandage from her ankle; the wound was swollen but a healthy pink colour.

At least something was going right.


	8. Back in your own Backyard

**Due to an increased workload and the start of a new University semester updates will now be fridays only but they will continue! Thanks for your support!**

* * *

The service rifle Jackson "lost" for her was, well, serviceable she thought. Or it would be after some tinkering.

The road seemed longer without the sickness or the sniper to keep her company and, as the sun dipped low, she found herself shivering in the dying light. Wondering how alone the men in Nelson felt right then; would they even be alive when she got back? She began to jog, breathing becoming harsh and heavy as the pain in her leg intensified and a creeping wetness told her the scabs were tearing. The dust scoured away all traces of her bath, the road beat away all signs that she had ever been a fed and pampered slave. There was no softness to her now; no pixie-cut, lemon bleached hair or gaudy paint. Dahlia stopped outside the Ranger Station suddenly; despite the twilight that had settled around her, there was no light in the windows and no sound from the caravans.

She stepped behind the wall softly, tentatively like a fox in a bears den. The front door lay wide open, a Legionnaire lay halfway out, eyes wide open, blood staining his mouth. His chest was heaving. He looked at her with such fervent hope, such pleading repentance that she took a water bottle from her bag; everyone was dead here, that she was sure of. Kneeling she reached for his head and helped him lift it and, even now, he proved her kindness foolish. His eyes strayed immediately to her breasts, he smiled at her as if he knew what she was. She slammed the bottle hard into his nose and let him fall to the dust with her head spinning and her stomach lurching,

"Bastard." She spat, slamming her foot hard into his nose, "Fucking pig, animal, _cunt_." She seethed, shouting the last word, firing a round into his skull. Dahlia backed away from the dead man and the station he'd helped defile with her hands shaking and a tight, painful feeling reeling squeezing her throat. She was tired of being afraid.

Tired of feeling violate.

Hell she was pretty past _being_ violated, too but no-one can control the future. Perhaps, she conceded, they might guide it, though. She ran to Novac like a child from a noise in the graveyard; the Dinos silhouette might have been the sweetest sight she'd been treated to in a long time. Taking the stairs two at a time, she burst into her room and slammed the door shut, leaning against it,

"Shite." She sighed, "Shite, fuck, buggering shite." The nonsense helped a little,

"Bad day?" The voice took her by surprise and, without thinking, she lashed out at the looming shape that stood less than an arms length from her. After he hit the ground she realised who it was,

"Fuck you too." He said matter of factly, brushing himself off after standing,

"Well fuck off and sulk in your own room." The muscles of her neck were tight, he snorted and shook his head,

"Fair enough." His laugh was like rain; if she was him she'd laugh all the time, she thought and smiled along. When was the last time she'd laughed like that? She watched the mirth ripple and crease on his face... had she ever?

Maybe not,

"Come to New Vegas with me." It cut through everything and he stood like some kind of grim monolith for countless moments,

"Why?" He tilted his head,

"Why not?" she shrugged, resisting the urge to say more; what have you got here but bad memories? Don't you want to laugh more? Don't leave me alone. Please. Boone sighed and rubbed his head,

"I can't."

"Fair enough," she inclined her own head, hair falling forward, "but at least help me clear Nelson out." He sighed again. Her mother would have said it was the sound of his heart growing, she just thought he was a miserable prick by choice.

"Fine."

They wandered down the Nelson road in companionably frosty silence,

"You left me." He said,

"I went to the Mojave outpost."

"Because of something I did when I was drunk?" He stopped in front of her; not frostiness, then, guilt. And lack of memory, apparently, she brushed aside the spectre of his hands and shook her head,

"No, I had a deadline and you were... well, dead, to be honest." She tried to smile, she would have held his gaze but all she could see was her own face, monstrous and swollen, in his mirrored glasses. Boone nodded curtly and walked on, shoulders a little lower than they had been before,

"So what's happening in Nelson?"

"The Legions got hostages and the NCR wants a mercy killing," she tried to ignore his sudden stop, "I think we can get 'em out though, if they're not hurt _too _badly." Dahlia took his silence for acceptance and kept moving until, in the distance, the shapes of Troopers could be seen against the blazing, blue sky.

His silence was oppressive, she could feel its weight on her back and shoulders, as if she were carrying his judgement. She wondered what he was thinking and then, not for the first time, dismissed the thought altogether; it didn't matter what he was thinking. He was unimportant, only the hostages mattered right now. Ranger Milo was sceptical; his dark eyes were blank as slates but, in lieu of other options, he accepted their presence and, by proxy, their help. They slipped up to the perimeter like vengeful ghosts, him leading her along by trust alone; he had said nothing, she had to rest her life on his survival instincts and the hope that he hadn't developed a death wish recently. It was hardly surprising, then, that she was relieved when he clambered onto the low hanging roof of a building whos back face the ranger camp. They had a clear view of Nelson and, calmly, he began to pick the Legionnaires off one by one. She hit the ground when they started to slink into the shadows, hiding from his scope. Dahlia hefted the weight of her axe, turning it this way and that as she peeked around each corner. The war dogs fell to Boone's rifle before they got close, she had expected as much for the poor creatures knew no better, it was the handlers she was here to dispatch. The cowards who hid in the nooks and crannies of the town while she crept, fearful to the hostages. One saw her coming and, for all the danger, his smile made it all worth it. The relief on his dry, reddened face pulled tears to the front of her eyes. He seemed to be the most aware; she went to him first,

"It's ok," she gasped, climbing up to him, "I'm going to get you down, can you hold a gun?" He nodded,

"Do you have any water?" She nodded and pressed the small canteen from her belt intohis hand,

"Save some for the others, hold on to the cross, I'm going to undo your feet."

When he dropped to the ground he staggered a little but regained his balance before taking her hand gun with and admirably strong, steady grip. She climbed to the next man, giving him some water from the recovered canteen before cutting him loose; poor sod was practically gone,

"What's your name?" The free soldier called over his shoulder as Boone's rifle rang out in the background, felling one Legionnaire to the front of her who had been readying a spear and, hopefully, another somewhere out of sight,

"Dahlia," she called, "Why?"

"I wanted to know who to write the IOU to," he laughed and fired off two shots, "and it always helps to know someones name when you ask 'em out for dinner." She laughed, shaking her head,

"Alright, alright, what's your name?" She dropped to the ground, cutting the second mans foot bindings quickly, bracing herself to catch him when he fell. They stumbled together but he caught most of his own weight with a low grunt,

"Lieutenant Gillespie, Nathaniel if you're not NCR. The others still standing are Graeme and Corey. Well Corey's on the ground now but you get what I mean."

"Alright Nathaniel," she shouted, "try to make sure the Legion don't shoot me or your friends?"

"Fair enough." He laughed as she clambered up to the third man, Graeme... at least one of them was cheery,

"Graeme, is that your name?" She gave him the last of the water after he nodded, "Can you walk, do you think?"

"I can try." He croaked,

"Ok, if you can help Corey, Nathaniel, Boone and I will get you two out of here safe." He looked hopeful but utterly dubious, "I promise, I wont let anything else happen to you."

"If they take me-" he started,

"They wont." Her conviction seemed to reassure him and they fell together. He landed heavily but kept his balance and cool, pushing off seamlessly to sling his injured comrade over his shoulder before looking back at her and nodding with a determined but strained expression,

"Lets shimmy, huh? Not sure I can carry his heavy ass for long."

Shimmy indeed; they moved as fast as they could through the winding streets and Dahlia for her part was at the front, axe at the ready. When a stray legionnaire sprung from behind cover, machete raised, she slid under his out-stretched arm and turned smoothly, slamming the blade hard into the back of his skull. They made it to Ranger Milo without another confrontation and when Boone dropped from the roof, landing in front of her with a heavy, solid thump she realised that he was, as much as one could be of a passing acquaintance, proud of her. His smile was warm and genuine. Nathaniel stopped and handed her the gun,

"Your husbands a big lad." Boone frowned,

"He's not-... no," she laughed, "his wife died recently so you've probably pissed him off."

"Ah," he scratched his fair hair, "sorry pal..." he looked at her, "and you're husband?"

"I don't have one." She raised her brows and looked at Boone with disbelief, he smirked. The Lieutenant look at her with such open admiration that she felt a creeping embarrassment take over her, "That's good." He laughed and winked.

"Ok, well... we saved your arse so... try to keep in intact from now on, ok?"

"Yeah," he chuckled, "my service is nearly up anyway. Think I might start a pub," he looked into the sun with a queer smile and squinted eyes, "yeah. That sounds like a good idea." He limped away without another word.


	9. Thin skin, strong bones

**You have my sincere apologies for the delay but here it is; the next instalment!**

* * *

"You...ah you did good." The words sounded condescending even to his own ears, Boone winced, "I mean, well I've performed a lot of mercy killings in my time and I," he searched for the words, "There were a lot of times when they could have been avoided. I'm just glad you saw this was one of them." She turned to him and scratched her neck,

"Thanks." Dahlia seemed to search for words with her mouth half open but, as if failing to find them, shut it again and sighed, "I'm glad we could help them." He nodded; they could agree on that, if nothing else. She turned and walked downhill, shoulders pressed forward

"Where are you going?" He grunted, following regardless down the long, winding stretch of road that led out of Nelson into... well into nothing, he had always assumed.

"Nowhere," she shrugged, "anywhere... do you know what's down here?" He shook his head, blinking behind the tinted shield of his glasses. He followed her without further questioning. Soon he was glad he had; a trooper staggered around a bend in the road, not bloody but obviously bone weary and worse for the wear. He looked at them as if they might be a mirage and then gasped in relief,

"You... you have to help. My squad got taken by raiders." He staggered and Dahlia rushed to meet him, placating him with low words Boone couldn't hear and a cannister of water, "The legion are keeping them in Techatticup mine, I managed to escape but that bastard Alexus chased me out before I could get the rest."

"Can you make it back to Nelson?" She gripped the soldiers shoulder, he nodded, "Good. Go, we'll get them."

_We will?_ He waited for her to ask for his help and was disappointed,

"Thanks for consulting with me, short-ass." He grunted, the annoyance stronger than his actual objections; Carla had always consulted him. Then again Carla was his wife, Dahlia was a short, capable drifter who'd wandered into his life a few days before.

"Please," she snorted, "like you didn't want to go get them." She turned her head a little and gave him a look that seemed to say she knew him, inside and out, and that she knew why he was so pissed off. He shrunk in the face of that uncomfortable sensation and shrugged,

"Whatever." Two raiders came at them from a nearby hillock with only melee weapons, _idiots, _and were put down in quick succession. She scrambled up the hill, giving him a good view of her arse and a rip on the inside of her trousers. He looked away,

"We're here." She called down to him, "Good news," she landed in front of him and brushed some dust from her trousers, "it's dark, cramped and damp."

"Fan-fucking-tastic." He laughed despite himself and motioned up the hill, "you know you could have went round and used the road?" Her disappearing feet made no reply as they slid into the darkness of Techatticup mine.

Boone followed her without a second thought, as he seemed to be doing a lot lately, and shuffled down the hill inside as quietly as he could, keeping track of the shadowy blot that counted for a visual of her. The low growling of a dog made her stop suddenly enough to take him by surprise; he bumped into her with a low curse and they tottered for a moment, on the verge of falling.

"Careful." He whispered, backing away,

"Sorry," she muttered, "I'm not a fan of dogs anymore." He could understand. The mutt, however, was more friendly than it's predecessors and whined, shuffling up to them with a dejected air. She stood, still to the point of rigidity, as it sniffed her hand and whined pitifully,

"Don't think it's gonna hurt you, twinkle." He grunted, fighting back pity for the mangy creature. Dahlia shifted suddenly, as if shuddering back into motion and knelt, reaching out one hand to the creature and back to her sidearm with the other. He believed firmly, for just a second, she was going to execute the poor creature but, when it whined and dropped low to the ground, she ran her hand across its head and muttered something to herself.

"Do you have any food in your pack, Boone?" Her voice was low and alert- her shoulders tense,

"Sure, I think so." He lowered the smaller day pack to the ground and rummaged for something. A few strips of dried beef. He handed them to her and she, in turn, fed them to the dog,

"It's starving, hurt." She muttered, "What kind of animals mistreat their own guard dogs. It makes no sense."

She was speaking the truth, he knew, but he thought her outrage might have more to do with the animals suffering than the logic of it all. She hugged it's head to her chest and kissed it's mangy brow without discretion, whispering to it. He started at the similarity; a dream brought to life. He remembered the hot, sickening feel of that maltreated beast from his dream and wondered if it was the same sensation in real life. He'd never believed in deja vu, though Carla had believed firmly in psychics, but the scene was just too familiar. He looked away, staring at the earth wall until she stood again, following her when she walked on, this time behind the limping hound.

"Stay." She whispered, pointing to the mine entrance, "Go on." She stared it down, watched it creep away into the glimmer of sunlight at the end of the winding tunnel, "Good dog." She said it with a strange kind of finality; as if deciding it's fate.

When Alexus charged them from the shadows she moved with a stunning finality; there were no frills on that fighting style. It was short, sharp and brutal to the point of inhumanity and when he fell in a pool of his own blood she showed no mercy. She brought her heel down on his forehead three times in quick succession, grinding his skull into the dirt. She pulled the key from his corpse and smiled in the firelight, a red glint on her cheeks, a bloody twinkle in her eyes,

"Lets let them out, then." She strode through the tunnels of techatticup as if they were her own home, as if she were the master of the place. The troopers they let out seemed to think so, anyway, because they looked at her like she held the answers and regarded him with something close to awe in her reflected glory. Four in total- all a bit weary and dirty but not yet damaged. They staggered behind them like a group of orderly zombies, Boone smirked at the thought, remembering the old comics and books. The old world had, seemingly, been obsessed with it's own end. Right up until the end hit them square between the eyes. Then they all wanted to get away from it- the old presses were being pushed back into service but now they were churning out fantasy. Fiction set in a clean, orderly world of technology and laws.

The old hound was waiting for them outside the mine and, when he looked at it in the light, it was not so old at all just maltreated.

They made a strange sight, the nine of them limping back up the road that two had come down; the sun cast their shadows so long that they seemed to be followed by giants. The troopers fell into the ranger camp as if it were their childhood home and Ranger Milo, to his credit, treated them all like his children; a warm nod and a salute as they passed him. Then it was just the three of them and the silence; the dog didn't have much to say for himself and Dahlia seemed unlikely to break the silence, or so he had thought.

"This is my stop big guy," she smiled and hitched her pack higher; leaving it at the ranger station had been a good call. It seemed too big to even get into the winding tunnels of techatticup, let alone navigate, fight through and get back out of them. "Shit to do in far away places." The dog rested at her heels, the sharp bones of it's rib cage showing through the thin skin.

He wanted to ask where she was going and whether she'd come back; his usual life of watching carnage from the nest seemed dull, boring. Hurtful, somehow. He didn't; he watched her walk back towards Nipton until she and the hound were a dark smear on the shimmering horizon.

He swallowed the emptiness and slunk back to his motel room with a bottle and a scowl. But somehow he couldn't stay; it was like he had pins under his skin, a shivering feeling in his bones. The weight of his rifle seemed to still be on his shoulder, he rubbed his face and let out a sigh.


End file.
